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# Chapter 62: Things That Don’t Return
The fluorescent light in the convenience store kept flickering. Sae-ah watched it. Three days since leaving Kang Ri-u’s villa in Jeju. Two days since returning to Seoul. And now, at 2:47 AM in this GS25 convenience store, she stared at that flickering again.
Flicker, flicker.
Like a heartbeat. Or a traffic light. Something dying and coming back to life.
“How much is this, miss?”
The elderly woman asked. The same elderly woman. The one who came every Monday. Sae-ah didn’t call her “the convenience store lady.” She had no name. Just “customer” or “ma’am.” Knowing someone’s name meant acknowledging a relationship, and acknowledging a relationship meant taking responsibility. The woman seemed not to want that. Neither did Sae-ah.
“That’s 3,000 won.”
Sae-ah scanned the barcode. A beep. The machine’s voice. The language of something inhuman.
“It’s gotten expensive. It was 2,500 last year.”
The woman muttered. Sae-ah didn’t respond. A response meant agreement, and agreement meant sincerity. Sincerity was exhausting.
The woman handed over coins. The weight of coins. Sae-ah took them and placed them in a small box beside the counter. That box was emptied at lunchtime. Every day. The same way every day.
The woman left. The convenience store fell silent again. Sae-ah and the fluorescent light and the humming of the freezer.
The three days in Jeju felt like a dream. Kang Ri-u’s villa. The ocean. And the things he’d said. Han Jun-ho. Berlin. A death three years ago. All of it sounded like someone else’s story. Like a movie. Or a book. Like something that wasn’t Sae-ah’s life.
But her fingers remembered. The feeling of Kang Ri-u’s hand holding hers. On the water. Between the sound of waves at 5 AM. That warmth. That trembling.
“So when I saw you… you were like Jun-ho.”
He’d left the sentence unfinished. Sae-ah had noticed. Last night in the bedroom, even after Kang Ri-u fell asleep, those words echoed in her ears. You were like Jun-ho. And then? You were like Jun-ho so I had to save you? You were like Jun-ho so I loved you?
Or something darker. You were like Jun-ho so I was afraid of losing you.
Sae-ah leaned against the counter. Her fingers trembled again. Her own fingers. Like Kang Ri-u’s fingers. As if contagious. Emotion spreads like disease. Sae-ah knew this. She’d learned it from music. One note determines the next note. One note vibrates the air, and that vibration strikes the eardrum. And that sound never truly disappears. It remains in the ear, resonating forever.
Her phone rang.
It was Hae-ul. Text messages. Several of them.
[Hey, wanna show me something? Got a new tattoo. Wanna meet up tomorrow for lunch?]
[What are you doing? We haven’t seen each other in forever]
[Dohyun told me you went to Jeju. What were you doing???]
[Seriously, I think you’re crazy]
Sae-ah looked at her phone. She could almost hear Hae-ul’s voice through the screen. Loud, direct, precise. Hae-ul was always precise. She pointed out exactly what Sae-ah was missing.
Sae-ah replied.
[Tomorrow at 2. In front of Hapjeong Station. OK?]
Three seconds. A response came.
[OK. What do you wanna eat?]
[Doesn’t matter.]
[That’s so you. Let’s get tteokbokki. Tteokbokki fixes everything.]
Sae-ah put the phone down. Hae-ul was right. Tteokbokki fixed something. Or at least pretended to. That wasn’t bad either. Even if it couldn’t solve everything in the world, it let you forget for about two hours.
The clock showed 2:52 AM.
After 3 AM, customers dwindled. The convenience store grew quieter. Sae-ah organized the freezer. Dumplings, blood sausage, rice cake soup. All frozen solid. They were meant to be cold. When skin touches them, it sticks. There was no body heat in the freezer. Or rather, it was a place that stole body heat away.
Sae-ah lifted her own hand. Her fingers trembled in the freezer’s cold. Or were they pretending to tremble? She couldn’t tell anymore.
“You were like Jun-ho.”
She heard it again. In Kang Ri-u’s voice. Sae-ah closed her eyes. The freezer light went out. Darkness came. And something moved in that darkness. Han Jun-ho. In Berlin. A young man sitting before a piano. A young man holding a championship trophy and smiling. And a young man who died a week later.
Sae-ah opened her eyes. The freezer light came back on. She returned to reality.
The next day at 2 PM. Exit 5 of Hapjeong Station.
Hae-ul was already waiting. Tattoo sleeves visible. From forearm to neck. A new design too. A small matchstick shape. A burning matchstick. Just as Hae-ul had said.
“Look at this!”
Hae-ul lifted her forearm. Proudly.
“It’s beautiful.”
Sae-ah said. And she meant it.
“But what about you? Did something happen?”
Hae-ul scanned Sae-ah. Whether she could see something had changed in the past month, or whether she’d just pretended to see it from the start, either way she acted like she saw it. Hae-ul always did that. She saw things that weren’t there. And her pretending became the truth.
“No.”
Sae-ah answered.
“Liar.”
Hae-ul laughed. A big laugh. People on the street turned to look. Hae-ul didn’t care.
“Let’s get tteokbokki.”
Sae-ah turned. The tteokbokki restaurant was in an alley. A narrow alley. Sae-ah passed through here often. But she’d never been inside the restaurant. She couldn’t afford it. Tteokbokki was a luxury.
“I’ll treat you today.”
Hae-ul said. As if it were obvious.
“It’s OK.”
“No. I made some money. New client. A famous person. Two million won for one tattoo. Insane, right?”
Sae-ah was surprised. That Hae-ul could make that much money. But she didn’t change her expression.
“Congratulations.”
“You must’ve done well too, right? You went to Jeju.”
They entered the restaurant. A small place. Stainless steel tables. Menu on the wall. Tteokbokki, blood sausage, fried food, kimbap. Simple things. A menu from a corner restaurant in Seoul.
“Their tteokbokki is really good. I used to come here a lot. This is the first time I’m bringing you.”
Hae-ul said as she sat down.
Sae-ah sat too. A plastic chair that creaked when you sat.
“Two tteokbokki. And one blood sausage. For fried stuff… hey Sae-ah, what do you like?”
Hae-ul asked.
“Doesn’t matter.”
“You really only say that. ‘Doesn’t matter.’ ‘It’s fine.’ Does your whole life not matter?”
It sounded like a light comment, but it wasn’t. Sae-ah recognized it. Hae-ul always did this. She threw important words in a joking tone.
“Get fried zucchini too.”
“OK.”
The order went in. A brief silence settled. The noise of the restaurant. The sound of pots boiling. Conversation from other tables. These sounds flowed like background music.
“What did you do in Jeju?”
Hae-ul broke the silence first.
“Just…”
“Just what? You just went to Jeju? With that person?”
“Yeah.”
Sae-ah answered. Briefly. Minimally.
“Who is that person anyway? You wouldn’t tell me before. Didn’t tell Dohyun either.”
Hae-ul straightened her leaning posture. Her tone became serious.
“Just… someone related to music.”
Sae-ah answered. It was true. Kang Ri-u was someone related to music. Or rather, he was everything related to music.
“Music-related? So what? A producer? Composer? Engineer?”
“Not exactly…”
“What does he do?”
Hae-ul’s questions became increasingly direct. Like peeling back layers with a knife.
The tteokbokki arrived. The timing was perfect. As if someone had planned it. Sae-ah was grateful for it. It gave her a reason to be silent.
“Delicious.”
Sae-ah grabbed some tteokbokki. It was hot. Her mouth burned. That was good too. The pain was clear. The spiciness of the tteokbokki. It was a sensation without doubt.
“You’re bleeding again.”
Hae-ul handed her a cup of water. Sae-ah drank. The water was hot too. It seemed like boiled water.
“How does that person treat you?”
Hae-ul asked again. While eating tteokbokki.
“He treats me well.”
“Yeah? How well?”
“Just… he cares about me.”
“Cares? So you’re dating?”
“Yes.”
Sae-ah answered. That was true too. Or at least, it seemed right to say it that way.
Hae-ul stopped eating. The rice cake held in her tongs floated in the air.
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“So you’re OK with all that? The contract and everything? You forgot about it?”
Hae-ul asked. Her voice was no longer playful.
Sae-ah didn’t respond. Instead, she grabbed more tteokbokki.
“Sae-ah. What are you really doing?”
“Just… living.”
“Living? Is that what you call living? Sleeping three hours a day at a convenience store? Depending on that person? Is that living?”
Hae-ul’s voice grew louder. Other customers looked over. Hae-ul didn’t care.
“Do you remember your dream?”
“Yeah.”
“You said you wanted to be a singer, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Then what? Why are you still at the convenience store? Why are you depending on that person?”
Sae-ah looked at Hae-ul. There were tears in her eyes. Oh. Hae-ul wasn’t angry. She was worried. Sae-ah realized it just then.
“There’s nothing I can do.”
Sae-ah said. Her voice was very small. Smaller than the sound of boiling tteokbokki.
“What?”
“There’s nothing I can do. I already signed the contract. I gave the money to Dohyun. And the music… it’s not mine anymore.”
Hae-ul put down her tongs. The rice cake fell into the broth.
“So you gave up?”
“I can’t say I didn’t.”
Silence. The noise of the restaurant grew louder. The sound of boiling pots. Laughter from other tables. The owner’s voice. All sounds of a world that had nothing to do with Sae-ah.
“What did that person say? What did he promise so you think you can sing again?”
Hae-ul asked. Coldly.
Sae-ah didn’t answer. Because Kang Ri-u had promised nothing. He’d only said “let’s be together.” And Sae-ah had thought that was enough. Or rather, she believed it had to be enough.
“Sae-ah. Let me be direct. He’s not trying to save you. He’s trying to get rid of his guilt. Most men are like that. They want their wounds healed by another woman. They want their loneliness filled. They want their guilt washed away. And you’re mistaking that for love. Really.”
Hae-ul’s words were precise. Like a knife. Like someone was exactly dissecting Sae-ah’s heart and showing it to her.
“I know.”
Sae-ah said.
“You know? Then what?”
“I don’t know.”
Hae-ul sighed. A long sigh. Like a breath held for a long time. Like a diver coming up from underwater.
“Have you thought about your mother?”
“Yeah.”
“Have you thought about Dohyun?”
“Yeah.”
“Then think about yourself too. About yourself. Do you know you’re slowly disappearing next to that person?”
Sae-ah grabbed tteokbokki. Again. And again. If she didn’t do something, she’d cry. She chewed so she wouldn’t cry. She covered pain with heat. She prevented tears with pain.
Hae-ul said nothing more. Instead, she took Sae-ah’s hand. The hand holding tteokbokki. A hot hand. A trembling hand. Hae-ul held that hand. For a long time. Without saying anything.
Sae-ah returned to the convenience store at 6 PM.
She worked. She organized displays, rang up customers, answered questions. Everything happened automatically. As if someone was controlling Sae-ah’s body. As if Sae-ah was already absent.
Her phone rang. It was Kang Ri-u.
[What are you doing?]
Sae-ah didn’t reply.
[Hey? You’re not gonna reply?]
It rang again.
[Let’s go back to Jeju tomorrow. Just for a day. You have time, right?]
Sae-ah still didn’t reply. She put the phone in her pocket.
2:47 AM. The fluorescent light flickered. Flicker, flicker.
Sae-ah watched it. And realized. That Hae-ul was right. That she was slowly disappearing.
But she couldn’t stop.
She couldn’t let go of Kang Ri-u’s hand.
Because that hand was warm, and Sae-ah had been cold for so long.
The difference between fire and ice. That was all it was.
And even knowing that difference, Sae-ah kept walking toward the fire.